In Sickness
by Hoperise
Summary: Ned has a sinus infection. Don't worry about it - he learned how to deal with sickness on his own a long time ago. So why is Chuck in his kitchen, risking death and disease by getting close to him? [Based off the prompt: talk to me about characters learning how to be cared for.]


In Sickness

Setting: About a week after 'Corpsicle.'

Summary: Ned has a sinus infection. Don't worry about it - he learned how to deal with sickness on his own a long time ago. So why is Chuck in his kitchen, risking death and disease by getting close to him? [Based off the prompt: talk to me about characters learning how to be cared for.]

* * *

The gradual realization that the bedroom was on fire drew Ned into consciousness.

His eyes burned and his mouth, which had fallen open when his nose malfunctioned in the middle of the night, was dry and sticky. His throat felt like he'd been chewing on glass and his muscles ached all the way down to his toes. Ned let out an aggravated groan and covered his eyes with his forearm.

Well, he should have seen this one coming. Traipsing through city streets and cemeteries in the dead of winter after a series of restless nights had done a number on his immune system. A kid had come into the Pie Hole and hacked up a storm the other day - Ned must have caught whatever he had.

Lying there feeling sorry for himself wouldn't make him healthy faster. Ned allowed himself another moment of self-indulgence, resting his eyes before mustering his strength, peeling off damp sheets and sitting up on the edge of the bed. His head swirled and he suddenly knew what a snowglobe felt like. Fumbling on the nightstand for his phone, Ned squinted at the screen and shot a quick text to Olive.

_Not coming in. If you and Chuck have it covered, feel free to open. If not, take the day._

Heat blazed beneath his skin and pounded against his sinuses. He couldn't stay on this bed much longer. Plus, gravity and time were working to unstop his nose and there wasn't a box of tissues in sight. He sniffed and coughed, lips curling with disgust. Yeah, he definitely had to nip this in the bud.

It took a couple of tries to force his legs to work. His limbs felt distant, alternately tingling and aching. Swaying slightly on his feet, Ned sniffed heavily and spent a slow minute putting a plan together. He stumped his way over to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was bare of cold medication, so he downed a couple of asprin and three glasses of water. The kitchen provided him with a frozen water bottle and a container of crackers. He was sliding the living room curtains shut to block out the glare of the morning sun when his energy level crashed.

Ned dropped his treasures on the coffee table next to a box of tissues, slumping onto the couch bonelessly. His heart pounded in his chest absurdly fast for the minimal effort he'd expended, the pulsing echoing deep in his limbs and resounding in his temples. Blindly he reached up and pulled the beige blanket off the back of the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. He could ride this out. He'd done it before and he would do it again. The problem was that he wasn't really set up for sickness right now. When he felt a bit less miserable he'd have to bundle up and make his way to the store to get some Dayquil, orange juice, and canned soup. Something... something easy...

His gaze slid out of focus.

The glow from under the curtains shone angry red through his eyelids. The room was on fire again. Lava oozed in under the door frame and crept across the floor. Heat shimmered across the carpet. If he could just get to the window, he could crack it open and let in a breeze. He considered this and blinked. Too late - the couch was surrounded by magma. He was doomed to roast like an eighth hot dog at a six-bun party. Overlooked and left to burn. It was all very melancholy and tragical. He'd always felt bad for the mismatched hot dog.

Someone was building furniture next door. He could hear hammering through the wall and the pounding made it difficult to ignore the lava. He ought to bang on the wall and warn the carpenter of the danger, but he was miffed about being kept awake. Heat sapped his strength and dried his throat. The hammering became more insistent. Ned rolled over and covered his head with a pillow.

Chuck swam into vision. She was made of ice and he was full of lava. All the same, she reached towards him. Ned tried to pull back, but the heat radiating off his skin turned her to vapour and she blew away, carried by blistering wind.

Ned tossed about on the couch, thinking about life in a volcanic crater. It was probably a lonely existence. The heat would kill anything that might come to visit - except maybe dragons. That could be fun.

Then, cool damp pressure against his forehead. He could imagine steam pouring off his skin at the contact. Now that was bizarre - not the steam, but the sensation. Among his vivid fever dreams he had seen a great many strange things, but this was particularly real.

The last person to take care of him when he was sick had been-

"Mom?" Ned said, voice bleary with confusion. He looked up in expectancy, but the room was dark and blurry. His living room. In his apartment. Because he was an adult and not a child. And he'd seen his mother buried a long time ago.

Now that was cruel. Low blow, subconscious. More than dragons, more than lava and ice creatures and fire, his mom alive again was the most unlikely thing he could imagine. Rudely, the vision of the woman pressing a cloth to his forehead refused to dissolve. He closed his eyes again and turned away from her. Maybe if he pretended she wasn't here, she'd go back to his imagination where she belonged. Or he'd fall asleep. Either was good.

The not-his-mom urged him to stay still. Pressure against his ear, which was then removed. A voice murmured something just out of earshot. Cool cloth swept against the base of his neck, which he steadfastly ignored.

His eyelashes fluttered, glued together by rheum.

The temperature had shifted. The furnace no longer blazed inside him with the same ferocity. He sucked in a deep breath through his mouth, running a hand over his scalp. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and he was sure it was now sticking up at odd angles. Although he had slept for the better part of the day, judging by the dim gray light filtering through the curtains, the pounding in his forehead had grown sharper, more insistent. A thought flickered in his mind - perhaps this was more than a simple cold.

The chill had shifted from the living room air to dwell within Ned. His greedy fingers clutched the covers closer-

Covers. Plural.

Odd. Ned was sure he'd passed out with only the couch throw for warmth. He must have gotten up in the night to fetch the quilt from his bed, though the fact that he couldn't remember it was troubling.

Gathering his wits, he noticed a soft ticking of the radiator coming to life. That was also odd. The heat had been off last night - when had he turned it back on? That seemed like an odd thing to do while feverish.

He sniffed and reached for a tissue - but the small mountain of used tissues he'd accumulated during his hibernation had disappeared. Perhaps he'd swept it away with the trailing edge of his quilt on the return journey that he couldn't remember? Ugh, that would be a pain to pick up.

Sniffing heavily, Ned pushed himself onto his elbows to reach for a fresh tissue - and then he saw a light streaming from the kitchen. Faint burbling met his ears. Had he left the stove on as well? That kind of neglect went beyond thoughtless; that was begging for an apartment fire. He must have been really out of it.

Dragging himself to his feet, Ned wrapped the throw around his shoulders and trudged toward the light.

The sight that met his eyes was too much for his fevered mind to comprehend.

Chuck was in his kitchen, chopping parsnips and humming softly to herself. His largest pot was simmering merrily, carrots and potatoes jostling for position at the top.

Why was she in the kitchen? Didn't she know he was sick? You don't barge into sick people's apartments. You leave them alone until they get better - otherwise you catch what they have. Evidence: Ned.

Ned opened his mouth to convey this, but his throat wasn't working properly. The short walk had tired him out. He leaned against the door frame for support and sniffed instead.

Chuck looked up at him, a smile dawning on her face. "Morning, sleepyhead." Her voice was hushed, tinged with amusement. He must look pretty ridiculous at the moment.

"Wh't're you doing?" Ned managed, then winced. His vocal chords were like barbed wire scraping against a chalkboard.

Grimacing sympathetically, Chuck fetched a glass of water and set it on the table next to him. "Making soup. Vegetable broth, no chicken involved."

His foggy head took its time figuring out the mechanics of picking up the glass. Ned offered a grateful hum as he drained its contents, then tried again. "Here. What're you doing here?"

Finished her chopping, she brought the cutting board over to the stove and scraped the parsnips into the pot with the edge of her knife. "Olive said you weren't coming in, so I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Ned blinked. There must be a gap between his brain and his tongue because something wasn't coming out right. He sniffed and sagged back against the door frame. "No, I mean, why? I'm gonna get you sick."

That amused smile returned as Chuck bustled about the kitchen. "I couldn't walk away once I saw you. You looked so exposed, curled up on the couch with your little blankie and the heat off, which wasn't a smart plan, by the way."

"I was hot." Ned protested. He sniffed again, trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "Chu-uck. You can't be here. I don't want you to catch this 'cause then you'll be sick and if you get sick you'll turn into a hermit and hide in a blanket cave and be-" The sentence was interrupted by an explosive sneeze, which he did his best to shield with his shoulder. Gross. "-miserable."

Chuck looked up at him, her lips curved in that dizzying pout. "I can't leave you alone. You're miserable."

She might as well have been speaking Mandarin. Ned stared blankly, tugging the blanket tighter about his shoulders. "So?"

Her expression flickered with something peculiar. It looked like he'd just told her her dog had been hit by a car, and he didn't think that Chuck had ever had a dog, though he'd never thought to ask if she'd got one after he left Coeur d'Coeurs - and bees weren't in danger of getting hit by moving vehicles. Not that he knew of.

At last she found her words. "Ned, I just want to help. That's what you do for sick people, you take care of them. Didn't your mom-"

"Mom's dead." Ned replied distantly. He tried not to hold other people to his mother's standard - that route only led to disappointment. Pushing that thought aside, his eyes lingered on the pot of stew he was certain would smell delicious if he were able to smell anything. Hadn't he been overdue for a shopping trip? Where had all the ingredients come from? He found the the answer to his query in couple of plastic bags from the grocer down the street which were still sitting on the kitchen table. "Did you buy all this?"

Her brow furrowed lightly, but Chuck stood her ground. "Yes, I thought it would be better for you than a hot can of sodium. You were out of some things, so I just-"

Ned cringed, hunching his shoulders. All the heat in his body rushed to his face as he flushed with shame. A chill swept over him and he adjusted the blanket once more. "Chuck, you really didn't need to bother- I was gonna pick up some groceries later, I swear-" She had gone to all that effort. The least he could do was put the rest of them away. He took a step into the kitchen and swayed-

"Don't!" Chuck said sharply, her hands flying back in alarm.

Finding his center of balance somewhere between terror and embarrassment, Ned froze. Sniffed.

She huffed out a breath and dragged a kitchen chair out for him. "Sit."

Ruffled by the command, Ned met her gaze. Tried to see if Chuck was joking.

She was not. Hands on her hips, she ground out, "There are some things I can't do to help you, Ned, one of which is pick your giant elk body off the floor if you pass out, so, couch or kitchen, _sit down before you fall down_."

Ned sat in the chair.

She sighed and moved to the sink, running water into a kettle that she set on to boil. She gave the soup a half-hearted stir, then leaned back against the counter and folded her arms over her chest. "I'm not worried about getting sick. I'm not going to die from a cold. In any case, if I do get sick, you can return the favour by taking care of me."

He shrank in the chair, huddling into the confines of the blanket and sniffling. "I'm sorry, I just- I'm not good at this. I usually keep a healthy distance from people, so when I get sick they don't know about it, let alone catch something from me. It's been that way for as long as I can remember." Ned sniffed again, collecting his thoughts before continuing in a voice thick with congestion. "Not that I don't appreciate all the work you've done, but you don't need to hold my hand - especially when it's germy and disgusting. It's not worth it." He really needed a tissue. And another blanket. And about seven other things, but he only had the energy to move about five feet. He hated being this pathetic in front of other people.

For a moment her gray-green eyes went wide. Then a shadow of understanding passed over Chuck's expression and her eyebrows drew together, her arms uncrossing and falling to her sides. She swept out of the kitchen without a word, then came back with a box of tissues.

Chuck set the box in front of him, lips pressed together. "Blow." she said, then turned and left again.

Compliant, Ned took a tissue and blew until he coughed, coughed until he sniffled and had to start over again.

By the time he sat back against the chair, exhausted and shivering, his nose raw and sore, Chuck had returned. She was carrying his cozy black housecoat, which he was pretty sure had been in the bottom of the laundry hamper. A pang of shame twisted his gut at all the things he'd let slide, all that slack that Chuck had to pick up for him - but this was overwhelmed by his desire for heat. Without saying anything, she pressed it into his hands. It was still warm from the dryer. He buried his face in the material and let out a moan of relief.

On the stove, the kettle whistled merrily. Ned heard the sound die away and the splash of hot water poured into two mugs. A spoon clinked against porcelain. Then Chuck set the forest green mug before him.

"Hot lemonade. Aunt Vivian's favourite remedy." She said in sotto, taking the chair across from him.

Ned pulled his head from the confines of the robe and pulled it around himself, re-wrapping himself in the blanket. He looked from the mug to Chuck, wondering if he should partake in something he'd asked her not to do (although the steam was heaven against his aching sinuses).

She stared into her mug, a twin to his own except for the tea bag hanging over the edge. Her bangs shielded her eyes and she fiddled distantly with her spoon. When at last she spoke, it was in a quiet voice. Her earlier accusation and demand faded away with the rising steam. "This really should be obvious, but I'm sorry if the way you grew up made it seem not obvious, or if I've done a bad job of making it obvious- but your health and your happiness matter. They should matter to you, and they definitely matter to me. You matter to me, Ned."

Chuck raised her head, tossing her bangs out of her her red-rimmed eyes. "Don't think that I don't know what you risked bringing me back. I don't want this relationship to be one-sided. We have to trust each other, care for each other, in sickness and in health." She plucked an oven glove from the table and slipped it onto her hand, stroking his arm gently. "You always put my well-being ahead of yours, Ned. Let me do the same for you."

That day, the pie maker remembered a piece of home that he'd forgotten over time. Home was more than occasional sweetness and calories. Home was a warm robe, hearty vegetable soup, and a lap in which to lie his head. Home was watching old movies until he fell asleep by the light of the television, Chuck's gloved fingers lost in his hair. Home was a place where he could learn to be cared for, where he could be both vulnerable and safe.

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A good ol' fashioned sick fic as a belated Valentines Day present for one of my tumblr followers.

I have 5k written for the next chapter of Requiem - just sticking it together and deciding whether to cut it in two or post a humongous 15 page chapter all at once. We will see...

**Don't write the story. Live the story.**


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